


sing it loud so i can hear you

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Derek is a werewolf, I am so sorry, LITERALLY, M/M, Stiles is a zombie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:43:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Derek,” Stiles whispers, though it comes out as a rasp and it’s kind of disgusting, but he doesn’t think Derek really minds all that much. “Derek, <i>Derek</i>, can I eat you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	sing it loud so i can hear you

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhh so I was writing something more serious and sound but then I started watching The Walking Dead and this happened. This is a seriously romanticized version of a zombie, but hey, whatever. I think Stiles would be compassionate as a zombie too, OKAY.
> 
> Unbeta'd.
> 
> I might dabble in this verse later. But...I'm not really sure? :3

Stiles--  
  
Stiles really wants to eat Derek.  
  
“Derek,” Stiles whispers, though it comes out as a rasp and it’s kind of disgusting, but he doesn’t think Derek really minds all that much. “Derek, _Derek_ , can I eat you?”  
  
Derek just stares at him. “Stiles,” he says, almost gently, like what he’s about to tell him is going to  break him. And it just might. Because Stiles really wants to eat him. Like, a lot. “I gave you brains  _ last _ week.”  
  
Stiles blinks.  
  
“Derek--”  
  
“And you had a liver  _ yesterday _ .”  
  
“That was yesterday, dude,” Stiles says, and then licks his overly chapped lips, his not-so-actual-stomach grumbling at the thought of some fresh eats. He hadn’t had kidneys in a while, and he wouldn’t mind another liver.  
  
Or more brains.  
  
But Derek tends to be a little more restrictive on those, because they usually make Stiles drunk.  
  
“I think you’re fine, for now,” Derek grins, but he’s wearing his I’m-feeling-like-an-asshole grin, the one that means that he’s going to be a dick because he feels like it, and no, no matter how much Stiles begs for some type of indisposable body part that Derek snatches from the local morges, he’s not getting anything.  
  
Because Derek is a dick.  
  
“I totally hate you,” Stiles whines, and decides to bite into Derek’s thigh in retaliation, getting slobber and gross slime everywhere, making Derek slap away his face with annoyed hands. “We’re like supernatural brothers, or something. You should understand my constant urge to have bwains,” he mutters the last word into the skin of Derek’s leg and sighs. “Just like I understand your wofly sexual attraction to the moon.”  
  
“You’re disgusting,” Derek grunts, somehow disgusted and amused at the same time, and shoves Stiles’ face away, one of his fingers dipping into a cut on his face. Derek doesn’t even flinch away like the rest of the pack does, when they accidentally violate one of Stiles’ cuts with their fingers.  
  
It makes Stiles pause.  
  
Stiles writhes away in disgust, eventually. “Dude,” he begins. “Gross.”  
  
Derek raises an eyebrow, and snorts. “Coming from a zombie.”   
  
“I bathe,” Stiles retorts, snorting, but it just sounds like a constipated chuff, now.  
  
“In human blood.”  
  
“It counts,” Stiles protests, petulant.

 

Derek doesn't say anything, but Stiles counts it as a win, anyway.

 

*  
  
It’s not like Stiles is completely in control all of the time, either.  
  
He just doesn’t have the uncontrollable urge to kill Derek, or any of his pack, for that matter (though they do need to keep Allison and Danny away when Stiles is feeling especially twitchy, but it’s not like they didn’t  _ expect _ this when Scott burst through the Hale family house and yelled, quite triumphantly, “Derek, I found a zombie!”) but that’s because Derek says that werewolf flesh is different from human flesh. He only wants to taste Derek, to have a little bite, but that has nothing to do with Stiles being a zombie and Derek being a werewolf.  
  
That has everything to do with the fact that Stiles and Derek are mates, or something.  
  
(Stiles wasn’t really listening when Derek sat him down and told him, not that he should’ve been  _ expecting _ Stiles to, because there was a pile of human organs on the table in front of him, and  _ how _ could Stiles possibly listen like that?).  
  
So, anyway, it’s not like Stiles is allowed out in public where he could possibly hurt someone, which he  _doesn’t_ want to happen as much as they do. Derek says that it’s because he’s surprisingly compassionate for a zombie--especially a new one, like Stiles, who has only been dead for approximately five months or so--but it’s not like Stiles is a monster, either.  
  
Being a werewolf doesn’t define the pack. Stiles doesn’t understand why being a zombie has to define him.  
  
He’s not allowed out public anymore, which sucks, and he can’t visit his dad to make sure he’s okay because he might  eat him, which sucks even more, but Stiles is dealing with it. It’s better than him living out in the woods praying on rabbits and bears and the occasional dead body in the woods--which are, sadly, less likely to sprout up--because he refuses to attack anyone.   
  
*  
  
“Dude,” Scott says, and the flops down next to him, sprawling out on the couch where Stiles is currently running his fingers over his rapidly decaying flesh. It’s turning  _ green _ and violet now, which is as nasty as it is fucking  _ awesome _ . Maybe Stiles should check into seeing a zombie therapist, or something, because he surely didn’t curse as much when he was human. “Imagine if I’d never found you in the woods.”  
  
“You tripped over me,” Stiles corrects, because Stiles was minding his own business, eating some dead hunters brain (who was dead when Stiles got there, he swears!) when some lanky werewolf fell on his head.  
  
“I didn’t see you.”  
  
“You’re a  _ werewolf _ ,” Stiles says, incredulous, because  _ how can Scott not have seen him? _  
  
“You were kind of low to the ground, man,” Scott mutters, defensive, but at least he’s blushing now.  
  
“You have other senses, Scott.”  
  
“You smell like death!” Scott sputters, but at least he’s blushing now.  
  
“Distinctive scent,” is all Stiles says.  
  
“That’s not even fair, dude,” Scott begins, “that entire forest smells like death.”  
  
And Stiles wouldn’t know, because his sense of smell faded a long time ago.  
  
*  
  
There are things that Stiles misses, vaguely, because if he lets himself  _ really _ miss them, he’d just end up being miserable.   
  
He misses waking up in his own bed in that eerily creepy house he shared with his father. He misses his father, too, especially knowing that his dad thinks he’s dead in the ground, when really Stiles escaped months ago and hasn’t looked back. He misses being able to smell the pancakes his dad would cook for the both of them on his days off, waking up to the oven sizzling and the delicious scent of freshly cooked meat.  
  
This isn’t to say that Stiles is completely miserable, either, because he’s not. Derek looks after him, more than the werewolf actually  _ should _ . He brings Stiles brains and livers and other organs from deceased people at the morgue (and Stiles  _ knows _ how messy it is trying to take organs out of dead bodies--it’s even hard even if they’re already stored away in containers;)--he’s careful, though, always makes sure that Derek picks deceased people who aren’t organ donors, because living people need them more than Stiles does.  
  
Stiles is already dead.  
  
The people waiting--  
  
They still have a chance.  
  
So, Derek looks after him, in a way that someone hasn’t looked after Stiles in a long time, even before he was dead. His father didn’t look after him because he knew that Stiles didn’t need it, because Stiles had been forced to grow up from an early age, not by choice, but by necessity. But Derek does, he brings him food and makes sure Stiles is comfortable, and when they’re out doing wolfy things, things that Stiles can’t do because he is a) a zombie b) as remarkably not athletic as he was when he was human and c) seriously terrifying and would probably evoke chaos on the town if anyone saw him, Derek stays an extra twenty minutes, patrolling the area for dead bodies or something Stiles can snack on.  
  
And when Derek’s feeling  _ really _ generous, he lets Stiles bite him.  
  
A lot.  
  
*  
  
Stiles is more twitchy than usual today.  
  
He’s unable to concentrate--which is even more of a problem now because human drugs don’t even  _ work _ on him anymore--and he may or may not currently be chewing on the raw meat in Derek’s freezer. It’s not even remotely satisfying, and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but he’s under strict orders not to leave and Lydia’s on guard, making sure he  _ doesn’t . _  
  
Lydia is fucking scary, okay.  
  
Stiles doesn’t want to be subjected to her wrath.  
  
The meat really isn’t doing anything for him though, but he can’t seem to  _ stop _ .  
  
“Stilinski,” Lydia shouts, bored, “Derek’ll have your head if he comes home to see all of his meat gone.”  
  
And how does she even  _ do _ that, know what he’s doing when she’s like, four rooms away?  
  
Oh--  
  
Right.  
  
Werewolf.  
  
“He won’t,” Stiles rasps, confidently, even though he’s not so sure.  
  
Derek wouldn’t hurt him.  
  
Right?  
  
*  
  
That’s how Derek finds him two hours later, with various meat packets littered around him and blood rolling down his face.   
  
“I didn’t kill anyone!” Stiles blurts.  
  
“You killed my  _ freezer _ ,” Derek grunts, and Stiles thinks if Derek was a lesser werewolf, he probably would’ve whined.  
  
“Um,” Stiles says, intelligently. “At least I didn’t kill anyone?”  
  
“I didn’t find anything,” Derek says, and he looks defeated, but that’s okay.   
  
“Oh,” Stiles says instead, because he really is still hungry.  
  
“Does that mean I can--”  
  
Derek glares at him.  
  
Stiles just stares back impassively.  
  
Finally, Derek breaks, either because he doesn’t want to listen to Stiles inevitable whining later, or because he really doesn’t mind getting slobbered on today, Stiles doesn’t really care.  
  
“Fine,” Derek sighs, sauntering up the stairs remorsefully, and Stiles follows him, bounding up the stairs happily.  
  
He gets to  _ eat _ his boyfriend today.  
  
Fuck, yes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the Beatles song "I will" because apparently I like to be ironic.


End file.
